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REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

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PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


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T  II  1 


CHAPEL  OK  THE  BERMITS, 


OTB  i:  i:    PO  i.  m  s 


"  / 


JOHN    «;.  w  b  i  rr I  BR 


BOS  TO  X: 
TIOKNOB  ,    RE  I  D    PI  ELDS. 

M   DOCC  I  in. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1332,  by 
Jons    G.   Whit  tier, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CONTEN  I  B. 


The  Chapel  of  tiik  Hermits, 

yi i -i ion  of  i-in' 

In  Puaoam  oi  Nvri.i- 

Tiik    1*i  \.  i:   Of    El  IX>m—  1862 19 

ii, 

To  , 17 

Is  IV  v.  | 

Bi  n  m  in '  - 

PlOTUMI 

Dnun 

AfTftJU 

1 1 1 0  N 

Tiik  Cbom 

i     1 71 

To  Fredrika  Bremer, 

Ariur., 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Pagb 
Stanzas  for  the  Times  — 1850, 77 

A  Sabbath  Scene, 80 

The  Californian  at  the  Grave  of  his  Wife, 86 

Remembrance, 90 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day, 08 

Trust 05 

Kathleen, 06 

First-dat  Thoughts, 102 

Kossuth, : 104 

To  my  old  School-master 106 


P  o  E  M  8 


Tin;    CHAPEL    OJ     PHI    BBRMITS. 

u  I  do  beliere,  and  yet,  in  g\ 
I  pray  for  belp  to  unbelief; 
Poi  needful  Btrength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cuml  eringa  of  my  vs 

•■  I  'in  Biclf  at  heart  of  Ciafl  and  .-int. 

Sick  of  the  craze  1  enthusiast's  rant, 
Professi  >n'a  Bmooth  hypocrisies, 

And  creeds  of  iron,  and  liv.  - 

"  I  pond'  r  o'er  the  Bacred  word. 
1  lead  the  record  of  our  Lord  ; 

And,  Weak  and  troubled,  envy  r 

Who  touched  His  Beamless  garment's  hem  ; 


10      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

11  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  He  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  His  evening  hymn. 

"  How  blessed  the  swine-herd's  low  estate, 
The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord ! 

"  0,  sacred  soil  His  sandals  pressed ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  His  noonday  rest ! 
O,  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  His  life  divine  ! 

"  O,  bear  me  thither !     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook,  — 
Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Gennesaret  walk,  before  I  die ! 

"  Methinks  this  cold  and  northern  night 
Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again !  " 


T  B  B     C  B  A  !'  I  L     OF     THE      II  E  I  M  I   .  11 

my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  .-till  rivei  ^  1  i«  1  a* 

B      •   'tli  08,  and  above  tin-  brown 

B    I  curtains  of  tip  at  down. 

Then  -aid  I,  —  fur  I  OOUld  it"t  brook 

The  mote  ap]  I  In-  look,  — 

44  I,  too.  am  weak,  and  faith  [fl  Miiall, 

And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 

■  \    ■   Bometimet  glimpse    on 

Through  present  wn>nLr.  t|1(.  ,.t,  ni;ii  ricrlu ; 
And,  step  by  -  b  p,  since  tim< 
I  idv  gain  of  man  ! 

41  That  ;t!l  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
K  mains  to  make  <»nr  own  time  glad, — 

( )ur  common  daily  lit'-  an  be, 

And  every  land  a  l';i|. 

MThou  weariest  of  thy  present  state; 
\\  hat  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  lx?cn 
As  HiLrh  Priest  <t  as  PQate  then ! 


12      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS.    • 

"  What  thought  Chorazin's  scribes  ?     What  faith 
In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth  ? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led, 
One  sold  him,  —  all  forsook  and  fled. 

"  O,  friend  !  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning-Land ; 
The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merrimack,  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

"  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here ;  — 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"  For  still  the  new  transcends  the  old, 
In  signs  and  tokens  manifold ;  — 
Slaves  rise  up  men ;  the  olive  waves 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves ! 

"  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds  of  fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 


T  H  I     C  II  A  P  B  I.    0  F     T  II  B     II  BE  HITS.  1 1 

"Thai  song  of  Love,  now  low  and  far, 
Ere  long  shall  BWell  from  -tar  to  -tar! 
That  light,  tin*  breaking  day,  which  dpi 
The  golden-spired  Apocalyp 

Then, when  my  good  friend  shook  his  head, 
And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said  : 
"  Thou  rnind'st  me  of  ■  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin'a  leaves  of  gold."1 

And,  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wots 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained  gro 
And.  picturing  all,  the  ri\«  r  ran 
<  I    -  eloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began  i 


In  Mount  Valerien'a  chestnut  wood 
T)i»'  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  Mood; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
1  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 


14      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic  day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low ;  — 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age,  —  the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream  kept ; 
And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 


THE     CHAl'I.L     01     THK      BBBMI1  16 

And,  mateless,  chil  ed  more 

The  peasant's  welcome  from  bis  d 

•  •V«'llli'l«*, 

Than  kingly  gifts  «»r  lettered  pri 

Until,  in  place  of  info  and  child, 

All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  t<»  him  tin-  golden  k 
To  all  h«T  inmost  sanctitiea 

Mild  Druid  ofhei  wood-paths  *\\m  ! 
She  laid  bei  L.rr<-at  heart  ban  to  him, 

Its  loves  and  sa  dtj  —  ho  saw 

Tlie  beauty  of  h»-r  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  hei  ligni  he  In 

What  QOtei   bei  cloudy  clarion  hi' 

The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dj 
The  hymn  of  painted  ski 

And  thus  I 

Which  sv  n  along; 

And  to  hi  th  once  more 

Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore 


16      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer  air, 
And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care  ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes  ? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne  ; 
Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They  dropped,  and  kindled  as  they  fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The  mitred  juggler's  masque  and  show, 
A  prophecy  —  a  vague  hope  —  ran  A 
His  burning  thought  from  man  to  man. 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of  law  ; 
And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions  drew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  un weaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human  kind, 
And  self-despair,  in  him  combined. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS.       17 

He  loathed  the  false,  yet  lived  not  true 

To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew; 
The  doubt,  the  discoid,  and  the  -in, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within, 

Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  show 
tares  on  his  < 

Of  siinj)]''  faith,  and  loves  of  hoi 
And  \  irtue'i  gulden  days  t<>  come. 

But  weakness,  shame  and  folly,  n 

The  foU  to  all  hi-  pen  portra  . 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendor! 

The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  who  it,  at  tin- 

Up  to   I  -fold  brightness  dim] 

While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clii 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things  ! 

So  rich  in  words,  in 

So  high,  so  low  ;   change-swung  betwern 

The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 

And  Truth's  clear  sky,  millenniumdit ! 


18  THE     CHAPEL     OF     THE     HER  31  ITS. 

Vain  pride  of  star-lent  genius  !  —  vain 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise  ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned ; 

The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched  and  burned ; 

Burning,  yet  cold  and  drear  and  lone,  — 

A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone  ! 

Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea-king  passed,2 
Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless  frost 
A  wreath  of  flame  the  wild  winds  tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air ! 


T  H  i:     C  H  A  P  EL     01     T  I!  B     H  I".  19 

d  apart,  unknown,  unli 
By  those  whose  wrongs  hi-  sou]  had  moi 

re  the  ban  of  Chan  h  a      S 
1       [  ood  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  h 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
It-  pomp  and  shame,  it--  >in  and  r 
The  twain  that  summer 
T<»  Mount  Volerien's  ch< 

To  them  the  green  fields  and  the  - 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  s 
Prophetical  of  all  th<  ed. 

riif  hermits  from  !: 

The  bell  was  calling  home  to 

And,  listening  t<»  it-  sound,  the  twain 

S         '1  lapped  in  childhood's  tru-t  again. 

1  the  chapel  d 

ild  music,  swelling  i 

Low  prayerful  murmurs,  . — 

The  Litanies  of  Proridi 
2 


20      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :  —  "  Where  two  or  three 
In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be !  " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived  :  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 

Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me  ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it ! 

11  With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 


T  II  B     C  B  A  P  B  L     OF     T  II  B     H  B  B  M  1  21 

11  Nor  thunder-pea]  nor  mighty  wind 
Disturb  the  Bolid  sky  behind  ; 
And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt  r 
The  calm,  Mill  smile  of  1 1  tnds  ! 

"  Thus  through  tin*  world,  like  bolt  and  Hi 
And  scourging  tiro,  thy  word* 
Clouds  break,  —  the  steadfr  lain; 

W    eds  burn,  —  thi  in  ! 

"  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may  find 
[l     ouch  poll  ind  ; 

An  I  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others1  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

11  With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple  b 
And  pious  hop  •  we  tread  in  d 

Lost  the  calm  faith  in 

The  baptism  of  the  Penteo 

'•  Alas !  —  the  blows  foi  erroi  meant 

Too  oft  on  truth  itself  axe  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and  be 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  f 


22      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life ; 
We  came  not  scathless  from  the  strife ! 
The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings ! 

"  Meanwhile,  the  sport  of  seeming  chance, 
The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
"What  might  have  been  we  fondly  guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 

"  And  thou,  in  these  wild,  troubled  days, 
Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The  sceptic's  praise,  the  bigot's  blame  ;  — 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  had'st  been 
Among  the  highly-favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He  would  have  owned  thee  as  his  son ; 

"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 
Visibly  waving  over  him, 
Seen  through  his  life,  the  church  had  seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed." 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

'•  I  would  have  been  :  iques  replied, 

rvant  at  his  side, 
0! 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may 

'  '  than  thr;  lie,  more 

.  oil  lore, 
The  holy  liti  rho  trod 

'J  I 

■  A   iidst  a  blinded  world  he 
Tip  the  D  ial  law  ; 

Tli;:     !'  in, 

\        I  : 

"  He  lived  the  Truth  which  i 
T  ■  .  Faith  the  child : 

In  him  belief  and  art  * 
homilies  of  duty  d 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 

The  two  old  pilgri 

What  Beeds  i  :'  life  that  day  were  sown, 

The  heavenly  watchers  knew  a! 


24      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 
Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold : 
Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of  snow 
Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rousseau ! 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell !  " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The  mournful  doubts  its  falsehood  nursed. 

Ah  !  well 'of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not  man's,  on  me  be  laid  !  " 
Earth  frowns  below,  Heaven  weeps  above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love ! 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees  ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper :  —  "  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own  sake. 


THE     CHAP!  L    0  F    T  H  B     H  I  R  M I T8.  ZO 

Why  wail  thy  briel  - 

Its  perfecl  tl  >wer  and  fruit  in  man  ? 

no  balm 

Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

Mid  ■  i'l  false  pi 

Of  spiritual  pride  and  pamper 

A  lith,  '  What  is  that  to  ti. 

B«-  true  i  I  follow  lie  ! ' 

In  days  uh<ai  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  sh 
S       ••  hid  the  load  ith  below,  — 

Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers  foul, 
The  Lose!  -warm  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  I  Fenelon, 

Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun ! 

Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  biased  i 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread ; 
Men  knew  him  not :  hi^  garment's  hem 

No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 


26      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

"  Alas  !  no  present  saint  we  find ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time  ! 

11  Trust  not  in  man  with  passing  breath, 
But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  may'st  not  blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search  thine  own  heart.     What  paineth  thee 
In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek ! 

11  Where  now  with  pain  thou  treadest,  trod 
The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

"  The  foot-prints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in  thine ; 
And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers  !  " 


THE     C  H  A  PB  L     0  I     1  il  B     II  E  B  HITS 

A  lesson  which  I  well  m 

A  word  of  fitnet 

S    from  tint  twilight  c  ray 

Still  saith  ;i  voi  ■ 


ad  slowlj  r  1  turned, 

While  down  the  v. 

\     .  in  \\<  light,  lull,  w 1  and  tide, 

And  human  foi  lorified. 

Tin'  villi  j  transfigui 

And  purple  bluffs, whose  belting  v, 
\  !  to  hold 

The  yellow  ike  lamps  <>f  gold. 

TIkmi  Bpake  my  friend:  —  "Thy  words  are  true 
V       er  old,  forever  new, 
These  borne- 

Whi.-h  over  E  I 


23      THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

"  To  these  bowed  heavens  let  wood  and  hi] 
Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthems  still ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem ! 

"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream  ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee  ! 

"  Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no  more 
For  olden  time  and  holier  shore ; 
God's  love  and  blessing,  then  and  there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


ESTI0N8     0  I     L  : 

'.    DnftO    PM,  wfcOM    name  v.a>    I'riri, 

ine  an  answer,  tad 

"  Tliy  h<  art  liatli    gOD«    tOO  far    I  !hiiiki.-t    t. 

oomprehend  the  wi 

Then  .-ai'l  Em  unto  i  (  the 

"  —  2  BldlM,  <-!.aj>.  if. 


A  Itaff  1  wotil.l  not  I  ■ 

ile  faith  I  would  oof  shake, 
.  pluck  away 
The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 
Whose  loss  ii.  the  soul  without 

A  shield  against  th<  of  doubt 

And  yet,  at  tiia»  s,  when  OTBI  all 

A  darker  mystery  i  I    fall 

(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 

Who  seeks  to  know,  where  Faith  should  trust .'), 


30  QUESTIONS      OF      LIFE. 

I  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
Of  Uzdom's  tempted  patriarch, 
And,  speech-confounded,  build  again 
The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 

I  am  :  how  little  more  I  know ! 
Whence  came  I  ?     Whither  do  I  go  ? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is; 
A  cry  between  the  silences ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life ; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 
I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 
The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go, 
The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow ; 
The  tokens  of  a  central  force, 
Whose  circles,  in  their  widening  course, 
O'erlap  and  move  the  universe ; 


QUI  •      OF      LIFE.  31 

1 

irth  the  darki 

Of  al!  i  .  — 

bird,  —  what  part  have  I  \ 
This  .  —  is  it  th 

.  thrills  i; 

Whei 

\ 

V. 

When  Spring  m 

How  :"■    la  the  si  »ne  the  rth, 

Which  bi  tling  prism  forth  ? 

1  the  throb  whi 

The  life-blood  to  its  new- 
Do  bird  ami  bit 

Life's  many-folded  mystery, — 
The  wonder  which  it  is  TO  I 

and  distinct, 
From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlink 
Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the 
Prisoned  in  separate  conscious 


32  QUESTIONS      OF      LIFE. 

Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 
Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence  ? 

In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds ; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook  ?     What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ-swell  ? 
What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be  ? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea  ? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars  ? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars  ? 
I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still. 

I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 

I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen ; 

What  sang  the  bards  of  old  ?     What  meant 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient  ? 

The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 

In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid  ? 


LIFE.  .'33 

What  mean  I  arrowy  li.i 

Or  dusk  Flora- 

1 1  primal  thought  of  i 

From  the  Lrrim 

Where  tests  tfa 

Of  the  old  death-bolt 

Alas  !  the  dead  retain  their  trust ; 

Dust  bath  no  ;iu-v. 

i         real  enigma  still  ui 

Unanswered  the  i  •■ 

I  gather  up  the  - 

0(  wisdom  in  the  •  arly  i 

Faint  gleams  and  br  the  light 

Of  meteors  in  n  night, 

Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 

in  which  Q  Mrtli  ; 

I  li<t«'n  to  the  sibyl 
The  voice  of  priest  and  bierophantj 
I  know  what  Indian  K  ;:h, 

And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 

The  demon  taught  I    S 

And  what,  \  raeath  his  garden-tr 


34  QUESTIONS      OF      LIFE. 

Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 
The  solemn-thoughted  Plato  said  ; 
Nor  lack  I  tokens,  great  or  small, 
Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 
"While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 
The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 
The  starry  pages  promise-lit 
With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 
Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 
0,  holy  one  of  Nazareth  ! 

On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 
The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone,  — 
Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clue  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind  ! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound ! 
0,  thriftlessness  of  dream  and  guess  ! 
O,  wisdom  which  is  foolishness ! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings ; 


QUI  -      0  F      L  I  I  I  .  '35 

Why  stretch  beyond  oui  proper  sphere 

And  age,  foi  thai  which  lies  so  near! 

Why  climb  the  (ar-off  hills  with  pain, 

A    i  irei  i  iew  of  he  i  lin  I 

In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  deUi 

The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 

A  fountain'!  pine-h 

And  lotus-twined  his  silent  :• 

Whence,  pier  :ing  hi  i\  ■  d,  with  -  ight, 

}  I     •        •  noon  the  stars,  whose  light 

Shall  glorify  the  coming  night 

II'  n  !•  •  me  p iuse,  my  quest 
Enough  lor  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  he  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The  past  and  futui  .  — 

Who,  girt  with  his  immensil 
Our  vast  ami  Btar-hung 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades, — 
Mores  not  alone  the  heavenly  qui 
]Sut  waves  the  spring-tin 
Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 

But  deigns  my  own  ; 

~  3 


36  QUESTIONS      OF      LIFE. 

Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fate 
Which  worlds  destroy,  and  worlds  create, 
But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To  Him,  from  wanderings  long  and  wild, 
I  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 
In  cool  and  shade  His  peace  to  find, 
Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind. 
Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 
And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 
I  turn  from  Fancy's  cloud-built  scheme, 
Dark  creed,  and  mournful  eastern  dream 
Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 
Controlling  all,  itself  controlled, 
Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 
Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause ; 
From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 
The  seven-fold  gates  of  mystery, 
And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 
Word-prodigal  of  fate  and  will ; 


QUESTIONS      OF      LIFE.  37 

From  Nature,  rind  hr>r  mockery,  Art, 
And  book  and  :  men  apart, 

To  the  still  witness  in  my  h'-art; 
With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 

His  Avatar  of  love  unfold, 

The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old! 


THE    PRISONERS    OF    NAPLES. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  the  victims  bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 

And  sunshine,  in  their  close,  damp  cells  of  pain, 

Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in  vain 

Appeals  against  the  torture  and  the  chain ! 

Unfortunates  !  whose  crime  it  was  to  share 

Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to  dare, 

In  its  behalf,  Rome's  harlot  triple-crowned, 

And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hateful  thing 

Who  upon  Christian  or  on  Pagan  ground 

Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  of  king. 

O,  God  most  merciful !     Father  just  and  kind ! 

Whom  man  hath  bound  let  Thy  right  hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  Thy  purposes  of  good  behind 

Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers  find 

Strong  consolations ;  leave  them  not  to  doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  without 

The  hope  which  all  Thy  attributes  inspire, 


T  II  L     PRI80NEB8     OK     NAPLES,  .S9 

That  not  in  vain  the  martyr'-  robe  of  fire 

I-  worn,  nor  the  sad  pri  I  ftting  chain; 

Since  all  who  suffer  for  Thy  truth  Bend  forth, 

J.  .  with  every  throb  of  pain. 

Unquenchable  sparks,  Thy  own  baptismal  rain 

Of  fire  ami  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 

Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 

Let  this  great  hope  l»-  with  then  lie 

Shut  from  the  Light,  the  sky,  — 

From  the  cool  wati  n  ami  the  pi 

The  smell  of  flowers,  ai 

Bound  with  the  felon  lepers,  whom  « 1  i -  - 

And  -iii-  abhorred  maiv<-  loathsome;  let  them  >harc 

Pellico'fi  faith,  Foi  ngth  to  bear 

Voars  of  unutterable  torment,  stern  ami  -till. 

As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through  his  will! 

Comfort  them  with  Thy  future;  let  them  i 

The  day-dawn  i^(  Italian  liberty  ; 

For  that,  with  all  good  things,  i-  hid  \\.-     I 

And,  perfect  in  Thy  thought,  await-  it<  time  to 

I,  who  have  spoken  foi  freedom  at  the  coal 

Of -Mm.-  weak  friendships,  or  some  paltry  priie 


40  THE     PRISONERS     OF     NAPLES. 

Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I  have  lost 
Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sympathies, 
And  free  communion  with  the  good  and  wise,  — 
May  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  boast 
Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 
That  the  strong  pulse  of  health  no  more  is  mine ; 
That,  overworn  at  noonday,  I  must  yield 
To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the  field, — 
A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's  decline. 
For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and  knowing 
That  kindly  Providence  its  care  is  showing 
In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 
Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to  pray. 
Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 
Melts  on  its  sunset  hills ;  and,  far  away, 
For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 
To  me  the  pine-woods  whisper :  and  for  me 
Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of  calm, 
By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple-starred, 
And  gentian  bloom  and  golden-rod  made  gay, 
Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the  sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward ! 


tin;    PS  ISO  N  1:  B  s    o  r    N  A  r  ;  41 

Nor  Lack  I  friends,  long-tried  and  neai  and 
Whose  lore  u  round  me  like  this  atmosph 
Warm,  soft  and  golden.     I  i  me, 

What  shall  I  render,  0  my  God,  to  Ti. 
Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  musl  bear; 
S;i\-'  me  from  selfish  i » i m i 1 1 <_r ;  l«'t  my  h 
Drawn  from  itself  m  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longingi  of  a  rain  r<  Lrr*-t, 

The  anguish  of  il-  own  peculiar  -mart. 

Remembering  others,  :i-  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  peat  sorrows,  let  me  live  alway 

Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part. 
Such  afl  a  frail  and  erring  >pirit  may, 

In  lore  which  is  of  1       .  and  which  indeed  TIkmj  art ! 


THE    PEACE    OF    EUROPE  — 1852. 

"  Great  peace  in  Europe  !     Order  reigns 
From  Tiber's  hills  to  Danube's  plains  !  " 
So  say  her  kings  and  priests ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 

Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear ; 
The  tramp  of  measured  marches  hear,  — 
The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal. 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall ! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men  ! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains ! 
Order  —  the  hush  of  brooding  slaves  ! 
Peace  —  in  the  dungeon -vaults  and  craves  ! 


THC     PEACE     OF    EUROPE.  43 

0,  Fisher!  of  the  world-wide 

With  meshes  in  all  waft 

Who-r  fabled  L  aren  and  hell 

Bolt  hard  the  patriot'  -cell, 

And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 

Where  kings  and  priests  hold  camiral! 

W«  ik  vassal  tricked  in  royal  gn 

B      Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  ! 

I'.     •  gambler  tor  N  crown, 

Barnacle  on  hi<  dead  renown  ! 

Thou,  Bourbon  Neapol  I 

Crowned  scandal,  loath* 

And  thou,  fell  Spider  of  the  North  ! 

Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth, 

Within  who---  web  the  freedom  d 

Of  nations  eaten  np  like  flies  ! 

Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  and  Car! 

If  this  I"*  Peace,  pray  what  is  Warl 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord!  onmeel 
That  soil  accursed  foi  thy  p 
V    •  r  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 
The  fountain  of  thy  charmed 


44  THE     PEACE     OF     EUROPE. 

No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 

Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves ; 

Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 

Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle ; 

Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free  ! 

Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 

Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 

The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 

Gray,  scarred  and  hairy-robed,  must  press 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness  ! 

O !  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 

Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 

A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer : 

Repent  !  God's  Kingdom  draweth  near  ! 


VfORDSWORTH. 

WtLtTTKS    ON    A    BLANK    IMAM    Vf    UU    MLi: 

Deai  friends,  who  read  the  trorld 

And  in  ita  common  fori: 
A  beauty  and  ■  harmony 

The  many  oerei  lean  ! 

Kindred  in  eon]  of  him  who  found 
In  ample  flower  and  leaf  and  v: 
The  impulse  of  the  I  lyi 

Our  Si  iwn,  — 

A  •  <>rd  of  :i  ]i(c 

\  t  and  pnre,  as  calm  and  good, 

A-  ■  long  day  of  blandest  Jane 

In  Lrr»'''ii  Held  and  in  Wood 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  ted  and  party  n 

The  brook-like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joj 


46  WORDSWORTH. 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 
The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  Him  surviveth  all. 


1  o  . 

Fair  Nature's  priestess*  - !  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

1 1  •  >ld  ; 

Who,  wise  in  od  and  n 

'l'h  ■  seasons'  pictured  Bcrolls  can  i 

In  lessons  manifold ! 

Thanks  foz  the  courtesy,  and 

Good  humor,  which  on  V>  Day 

<  I        .-■       d  \  isil  bore  ; 
Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which  broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Art* 

Along  his  wooded  she 

\        !  as  varying  Natui 
Sprites  of  the  river,  woodland  fai 
Or  mountain-nymp]  -  emj 


48  to 


Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 
Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon  ?     Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain-view  ? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among ; 
Snow-flowered  azalias,  intertwined 
With  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With  trembling  hare-bells  hung  ! 

A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still  murmurs  in  the  wind-swept  pine, 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 


t  o .  49 

The  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Song,  paint  I,  wrought,  lies  close  at  home  ; 
We  need  bill  eye  and 

In  all  our  daily  wall 
The  outline*  of  incarnat 

The  hymn  to  bear  ! 


IN    PEACE. 

A  track  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 

Whose  small  waves  on  a  silver-sanded  shore 
Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low  winds  make 
Such  harmonies  as  keep  the  woods  awake, 
And  listening  all  night  long  for  their  sweet  sake ; 

A  green-waved  slope  of  meadow,  hovered  o'er 
By  angel-troops  of  lilies,  swaying  light 
On  viewless  stems,  with  folded  wings  of  white  ; 
A  slumberous  stretch  of  mountain-land,  far  seen 
Where  the  low  westering  day,  with  gold  and  green, 
Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 
The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among  the  hills ; 
A  vine-fringed  river,  winding  to  its  rest 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  storm] ess  sea, 
Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
With  earthly  flowers  and  heavenly  stars  impressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity  : 

Such  are  the  pictures  which  the  thought  of  thee, 


IH      PEACE.  51 

0  friend,  awakeneth, —  charming  the  keen  pain 

Of  thy  departure,  and  <>ur  sense  of  lo 
Requiting  with  the  fulness  of  thy  gain. 

Lo  !  on  the  quiet  grave  thy  life-born 
Dropped  only  a1  its  side,  methinks  doth  shi 
Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign  ! 

\    sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament,  be  th 

To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy  air  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  silent-breathing  pray  r 
Of  hearts  still  waiting  for  a  real  like  thine. 
0      nt  redeemed!     Forgive  us,  if  henceforth, 
With  sweet  and  pure  similitudes  of  earth, 

\\  e  keep  thy  pleasant  memory  fresh 
Of  Love's  inheritance  ;i  priceless  part. 

Which  Fancy's  self,  in  reverent  awe, 
To  paint,  forgetful  of  the  tricks  of  art, 

With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  color-  of  the  heart 

4 


BENEDICITE. 

God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 

The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  wre  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 


B  BNBD1  C  I  .  53 

Where'er  I  look,  whi  I 

Thy  thought  goea  frith  me  on  my  way, 

And  hence  the  prayer  1  breathe  to-day  ! 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  ch 

The  weary  Waste  which  liefl  I    I 

Thyself  ami  in"-,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'sl  doI  Friendahip'i  ipell-word,  nor 
The  half-unconscious  pom  r  to  draw- 
All  hearte  to  thine  by  L  iw. 

With  th<  1 1 

Thy  lot,  and  many  a  <  harm  thou  bast 

To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  f<»r  i: 

The  gracious  beavens  will  heed  from  me, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  I 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed  — 
What  can  I  more  than  meekly  pli 

The  greatness  of  our  common  \\>  ■ 


54  BENEDICITE. 

God's  love  —  unchanging,  pure  and  true 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace  —  the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day. 
As  thou  may'st  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 


PI  I 

I. 
Linm,  warmth,  and  sprouting  .  rail 

Blup,  stainless,  steel-bright  ether,  raini 
I      tquillity  upon  the  deep-hush 
The  freshening  meadows,  and  the  hill-sid< 
V  wind  &om  the  hills 

And  thp  brimmed  rirei  from  II  fall, 

1.  »w  lmni  of  1 s,  and  joyous  interlu 

Of  bird-  — ■ 

Heralds  and  prop]  bt, 

Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth  and  light, 
idant  ang 

With  p  ren  at  t  •  with  mi 

Onrp  more  through  (  you  ] 

A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 
A-  that  which  -aw.  of  old,       P 
Immortal  Love  upri^imr  in  fresh  bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of  tfa 
Fifth  month,  2d,  LS52. 


56  PICTURES. 

II. 

White  with  its  sun-bleached  dust,  the  pathway  winds 
Before  me  ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken  grass, 
And  on  the  trees  beneath  whose  boughs  I  pass ; 
Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of  the  sky, 
Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless  eye, 

While  mounting  with  his  dog-star  high  and  higher, 

Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 

The  burnished  quiver  of  his  shafts  of  fire. 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of  his  South 
A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace-mouth, 
Glimmers  and  swims  before  my  dazzled  sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 
Broke  as  they  fell,  and  shattered  into  light ! 

Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  Western  wind, 
And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard  trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken  bees, 
Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green  with  constant  streams, 

And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool  behind, 
Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  orchis  gleams, 

And  starred  with  white  the  virgin's  bower  is  twined. 

So  the  o'erwearied  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 

Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times  is  fanned, 


PICTURES.  57 

Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  tfweel  airs 

Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  a<  the  dewfall  bland. 
Breath  of  the  hi-        I  I!      .     .  for  which  we  pray, 
Blow  from  the  eternal  hills! —  make  glad  our  earthly 
way  ! 

Eighth  month 


DERNE.3 

Night  on  the  city  of  the  Moor ! 

On  mosque  and  tomb,  and  white-walled  shore, 

On  sea-waves,  to  whose  ceaseless  knock 

The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 

On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 

And  plundered  Christian  caraval ! 

The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still ; 
No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill ; 
Stretched  in  the  broad  court  of  the  khan, 
The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 
Lies  heaped  in  slumber,  beast  and  man ; 
The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 
His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'er-spent ; 
The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are  gone, 
The  merchant  with  his  wares  withdrawn ; 
Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 
The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest ; 


DB1  59 

And,  save  where  m  tens  fall 

Along  the  Bashaw*!  guarded  wall, 
Or  where,  Lik<   -  1  dream,  the  X 

I  ilthily  his  quarter  through, 

Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 
The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleej 

Hut  where  yon  prison  long  and  ! 

1-  black  against  tl  r-giow, 

Chafed  by  the  -.  ash  <>f  a 

Then-  watch  and  pine  the  Christian  slaves;  — 
Rough-bearded  men,  whose  far-off  win 
Wear  out  with  irri<f  th«-ir  lonely  1 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  i 
The  dear  blue  i     N       England  bV 

A  treasured  lock  ofwhoSC  Bofl  hair 

Now  wakes  some  Borrowing  mother's  pray  fj 
Or,  worn  upon  Borne  maiden  breast, 

Stirs  with  the  Loving  heart's  unrest! 

A  hitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 

The  groaning  earth  is  cursed  with  pain, 


60  DERNE. 

And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 
O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose  load  man  totters  down  to  death, 
Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless  hand 
The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And  leave  him  naked,  blind  and  mute, 
The  god-like  merging  in  the  brute  ! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened  corn-sheaves  gathered  in  ? 
0  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 


I»  B  61 

Tarn  to  the  quick  and  — shed 

Thy  tears  upon  the  living  <]• 
Thank  God  above  thy  deaf  ones'  gravi 
They  sleep  with  Him,  —  they  are  do!  slavi 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mount 

SwnVpouring,  like  a  stream  divides  ?  — 

A  long,  loose,  straggling  ca/avan, 

Game!  and  bone  and  armld  man. 

The  moon's  low  cres  sent,  glimmering 

I'  of  waters  to  the  shore, 

I,    bts  up  thai  mountain  cavalca 

And  glints  from  gun  and  spear  and  bis 

Near  and  more  near !  —  now  o'ei  them  falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 

Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge,  drowned 

In  the  fierce  trumpet's  charging  sound !  — 

The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 

The  sh<»rt,  sharp  clang  of  meetin 

Vain,  Moslem,  vain  thy  life-Mood  pound 

So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword  ! 


62  D  E  R  N  E  . 

Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws  ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And  herd  with  common  brutes  his  kind 
Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'T  is  done,  —  the  horned  crescent  falls  ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls  ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband  !  joy   ♦ 
To  thy  sick  heart,  0  brown-locked  boy ! 
In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 
The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-born, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 


DE  K 

With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through  h  1,  — 

.11  and  fu  tth 

Of  t!.<  .  

With  welcome  words  and  grasping  ban 

The  victor  and  deliverer  Stan 

The  tale  listant  ski 

The  dual  of  half  ■  century  I 

Upon  it  :    ;.•  r  its  b<  I 
Still  linger*  on  til--  lips  i     I 
Men  speak  the  praise  of  him  who 
Deliverance  to  the  Moorman1 
5    •   lao-  to  brand  with 
Tin-  heroes  of  our  land  and  time, — 
I 

1 1       .  name  and  lii  I 

God  mend  lii^  heart  who  cannot  I 
The  impulse  of  a  holy  seal, 

And  sees  not,  with  hifl 

The  beauty  o['  selfa 
Though  in  the  sacred  place  b 
Uplifting  ted  hands, 


64  DERNE. 

Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  teL 

Of  Jesus'  martyr-miracle, 

Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 

Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race  ! 


A8TB  A 

"J  ve  means  to  settle 

And  let  down  fn  _        a  chain 

An  -.1." 

I,  1616. 

O,  pokt  nir- •  and  old  ! 

Thy  Words  ;ir«'  pn 
Forward  the  ag 

Tli  S  ituraian  1; 

The  aniTena]  pray  r 

A  not  in  rain  ; 

B     .  brothers !  ami  j»r«  ] 
The  way  for  Saturn's  r 

Perish  shall  all  which  •,..' 

From  labor"-  board  an  1  ran; 
Perish  shall  all  which  m 
A  spaniel  of  the  man  ' 


66  ASTR£A. 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 
The  body  from  the  rod ; 

Broken  all  chains  that  bind 
The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven ! 


INI  0  (    i  T 1 0  N . 

Through  thy  clear  s]        ,L  ird,  of  old, 

Forml'-.--  and  roid  the 

J I    !  to  thy  bi  music,  blind 

To  the  great  lights  which  o'er  it  shim 

,\  i    .mi  I,  do  i  breath, — 

A  dumb  despair,  a  wan  l<  ring  d<  ath. 

To  thai  dark,  w  It-  rinLr  h"rpir  came 
I        ;iirit,  like  :i  subtle  flame,  — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 
Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  ;  i  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and 
Then  smiled  tfa  i  bloom  of  mead  ami  ti 

From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to  man, 
The  qui  ', 

5 


63  INVOCATION. 

And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  renewed, 
Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old,  — 
A  wandering  waste  of  storm  and  night, 
Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of  light, 
A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  thee,  am  I. 

O  thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep ! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may  be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  thee. 


THE     CROSS 

MAT!   Of  n  BIBB   DILI  >'• 

"  Tic  rightly  borne,  shall  be 

No  burd<  ii,  bul  support  to  thee  ;"* 
B  .  moved  of  old  time  for  o 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen 

Thou  brave  and  true  one !  upon  wl  om 
Whs  laid  the  crow  of  m  irt)  r  lorn, 
How  didst  thou,  in  tli •.  ith, 

bV  ar  witness  to  this  bl<  s»  1  truth  ! 

Thy  cross  of  Buffi  ring  an  1  of  so 
A  staff  within  thy  hands  becan 
In  paths  where  faitb  alone  i  ouJ  I 
The  M  i  pporting  thee. 

Thine  was  tlm  seed-time  ;  God  alone 

Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  BOWn  ; 
•  Thomas  a  Kcinjis.     Imit.  Chrift. 


THE      CROSS. 

Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though  seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


E  V  A  . 

1 1  foi  holy  I. 

With  the  !'!■ — \  an 
Of  the  fo]  1 1 1 < i  lair 

Give  to  earth  the  U  ndei 

For  tip   golden  locli 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  hi  r 
Flowery  pillow  of  repose, — 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  i 

In  tlp^  better  I  I 

ie  Bhinin 
With  the  welcome  -voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm  ! 

All  is  light  and  pea  I 

There  the  darkn<  bs  cotneth  never ; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 

An  1  th<    I.     1  is  all  in  all. 


72  EVA. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 
Wrong  and  sin  no  more  shall  grieve  her ; 
Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 

O,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore! 


To    PB  i:  D  B  l  K  \    BB  EM  BB.« 

Sberess  of  the  misty  Norland, 
i  I  the  Vikings  bold, 

Welcome  to  the  Bunny  Vineland, 
Which  thy  fat]  hi  of  old  ! 

Soft  as  flow  of  Silja's  wa 

When  the  moon  of  summer  shii 

Strong  aa  Winti  c  from  bia  mountains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pin 

1 1     n  and  i  ar,  we  long  bare  Listened 

I  me  and  song, 

Til]  b  household  joy  and 

We  have  known  and  lo  long. 

By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 
Round  the  log-walled  cabin's  hearth, 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  and  northern  fancies 
M-    I  ami  mingle  with  our  mirth. 


TO      FREDRIKA      BREMEE. 

And,  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 

Sorrow's  night-watch,  long  and  chill, 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 

Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 

t 
We  alone  are  strangers  to  thee, 

Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art ; 

Come,  and  know  us  as  we  know  thee ; 

Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart ! 

To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead, 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


LPB  I  r. . 

u  Til- 

I      the  dood  of  the  sa  .  a  bird 

i  iken  elm  <>r  the  maple  is  heard ; 

I 

And  blowing  of  drifts  u  !.• 
Where  \\  ind-flo  iolet,  amber  and  white, 

«  I      outh-sloptng  brook-sides  should  smile  in  tin-  light, 
I  I      the  cold  winter- 

The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal  she 
And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind-driven  h 
Round  the  boles  of  the   pine-wood   the   ground-laurel 

Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized  of  show 
With  bu  y  swelled,  which   should  hur>t    into 

flow 


76  APRIL 

We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of  the  south ! 

For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the  kiss  of  thy  mouth ; 

For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest  from  God, 

Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the  sod ! 

Up  our  long  river-valley,  for  days,  have  not  ceased 

The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter  north-east,  — 

Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through  ices  and  snow, 

All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild  Esquimaux,  — 

Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of  the  blest, 

Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the  sunny  south-west. 

0,  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light  and  its  breath, 

Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring  life  to  this  death ; 

Renew  the  great  miracle ;  let  us  behold 

The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre  rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of  old  ! 

Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and  coldness  has  lain, 

Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  brightness  again, 

And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding  of  tree 

The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny  see ; 

The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of  the  whole, 

And  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth  love  to  the  soul ! 


STA  NZAS    l  OB     l  II  i:    TIM  BS— 1850. 

Thb  evil  daya  bare  come,  —  the  poor 

Are  made  a  p 
liar  up  the  hospitable  d 
I'ut  out  tlii-  fire-lights,  point 

Tli 

Foi  !'  'in 

i      telted  at  h<  r  hearth  in  twain, 

1  oft  niin  : 

I 

Our  Union,  liL  r  stirred 

B;    roice  below, 
Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  b  "i>t,  a  kindly  v 

\!  i  ,      rerthrow  ! 


78  STANZAS     FOE,     THE     TIMES. 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  !  —  yet  we  boast 

Our  blood  and  name  ; 
Bursting  its  century -bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's  coast 

Cries  out  for  shame  ! 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree  ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 
Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice  :  —  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 


T  II  B    T  I  I 

I  hear  another  roice  :  —  M  T3 

A      thine  to  I 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  i 
S        .\<-  to  bonds  and  wrong  one* 

Whom  God  hath  i 

Dear  L  I 

\      not  untrue  to  man't 
Though  spurning  it-  reward 

"Who  bean  It-  pa u\<. 

Not  iiiiii-'  Se  lition's  trun 

Ami  thn  atening  word  ; 
I  read  the 
Thai  firm  endui 

.More  than  th< 

•  >  F  lith  and   I  thou 

S     'aim  and  BtTOng, 

La  iA'  (Jed  !  be  on  ar  to  show 
Hi-  glorious  future  shining  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


A    SABBATH    SCENE. 

Scarce  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer  shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the  trees, 
She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  ; 

0,  pitying  Christ!  a  refuge  give 
That  poor  one  in  Thy  dwelling  ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 

Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 
While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 

A  lank-haired  hunter  sirided. 


A     SABBATH     SCI  N  B  . 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing;  — 

\\  era  manhood's  .  :•  id  ? 

1 1  ■!  woman"-  bearl  no  feeli 

A     sore  of  -tout  hands  rose  beta 

The  banter  and  th<-  flying ; 
Ago  clenched  his  staff,  and  maid 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

u  Who  dan  -  profane  this  houae  and  d  i . 

C  * ri<  »1  out  the  angry  pastor. 
11  Why,  bl<  n  your  soul,  the  wrench  'a  ■  alare, 

And  I  'in  her  lord  and  master  ! 

'•  I  \r  law  ami  gospel  on  my  aide, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  n 
Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
••  My  good  bit,  pray  excuse  me ! 

"Of  course  I  Know  your  right  dil 

To  own  and  work  and  whip  h<r; 

Quick-,  deacon,  throw  thai  Polyglot! 

Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  !  " 


81 


82  A     SABBATH     SCENE. 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 
Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 
The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"  Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day, 
All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 
Our  moral  obligations  : 


And  this  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender ; 

As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

]My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her 


I    »! 


Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 

Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder ; 
I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 

God  answering  with  his  thunder  ! 


ASA  B  i;  A  I  H     BC  B  M  B.  98 

All  still  !  —  the  very  altar's  cloth 
1 1    |        ithen  d  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  cluiiih,  she  turned  from  faoe  to  face, 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  hei  dragg  d  al  i  ig  the 

Ber  shackles  harshly  clanking; 
I  heard  the  parson,  on  r  all. 

The  Lord  devoutly  thanking ! 

My  brain  took  fire  :  M  I-  this,*1  I  cried, 
••  Th    •  id  of  prayer  and  preaching  I 

Then  down  with  pulpit,  down  with  ]>r 

A  Nature'!  teaching ! 

Foul  shame  and  -  sorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  ill"  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

T      ive  it  to  the  Devil ! 

Than  garbled  text  <»r  parchment  law 
tatute  higher; 

And  God  ia  true,  though  every  hook 

And  I  \  ery  man  'a  a  liar !  *' 
0 


84  A     SABBATH     SCENE. 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry  "  Infidel !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up,  —  where  now  were  church, 
Slave,  master,  priest  and  people  ? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted. 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry -bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 


A     SABBATH     SCENE.  55 

As  bird  and  flowei  mad'-  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature ! 

For  to  my  ear  methought  th< 

Bore  1     •  dora'a  blessed  word  on  ; 
T  Loed:  B 

Undo  THE  HE  vv\    I 


THE  CALIFORNIAN  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF 
HIS  WIFE. 

I  see  thee  still  before  me,  even 

As  when  we  parted ; 
I,  gold-mad,  from  thy  presence  driven,  — 

Thou,  broken-hearted. 
I  hear  the  train's  shrill  signal  blown, 
Thy  hurried  prayer,  the  trembling  tone 

Which  held  me,  while  it  bade  me  go ; 
And  read,  tear-written,  on  thy  cheek, 
The  meaning  which  thou  couldst  not  speak, 

Love's  prophecy  of  woe  ! 

Yet  thou  art  with  the  dreamless  dead 

Quietly  sleeping; 
Around  the  marble  at  thy  head 

The  wild  grass  creeping ! 
How  many  thoughts,  which  but  belong 
Unto  the  living  and  the  young, 


THE    CALE  T    THE    OKAVE    OF    His    W1FI        ^7 

Have  whispered  from  my  heart  of  to 
When  thou  wast  resting  calmly  there, 
Shut  from  the  blessed  Ban  sod  sir, 

From  life,  and  lore,  and  i 

Why  did  I  leave  theel     Well  I  knew 
A  flow*  r  bo  frail 

M    ;it  sink  l»  neath  the  summer 

< >r  xil't  E  jiriiiLT  gale  ; 

I  knew  how  delicately  wrought 
With  feeling  and  intensest  thought 

Was  •  i  h  sweet  lineament  of  thine  : 
And  that  thy  bean  n-ward  soul  would  gain 
An  early  freedom  from  its  chain 

\\  as  there  not  many  ■  sign  I 

There  was  d  brightness  in  thine 

\  •  t  not  of  mirth  ; 
A  light  whn-c  clear  intensity 

Was  not  ol  earth ! 
Through  thy  thin  cheek  a  deepening  red 

Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed; 


88      THE    CALIFORNIAN    AT    THE    GRAVE    OF    HIS    WIFE. 

And  yet  each  fearful  token  gave 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Which  spoke  not  of  the  grave  ! 

Why  did  I  leave  thee  ?     Far  away 

They  told  of  lands 
Glittering  with  gold,  with  none  to  stay 

The  gleaner's  hands. 
For  this  I  bartered  thee,  and  sold 
The  riches  of  my  heart  for  gold ! 

Its  healthful  love  for  sinful  lust ; 
The  calm  content  of  honest  toil 
For  feverish  dream  and  fierce  turmoil ; 

The  wine  of  life  for  trodden  dust. 

i 
Vain,  worthless,  all !     The  lowliest  spot, 

Enjoyed  with  thee, 
A  richer  and  a  dearer  lot 

Had  been  to  me ; 
For  well  I  knew  that  thou  couldst  find 
Contentment  in  a  quiet  mind, 


THE   CALD  OF   KM   WIFE.      99 

And  riches  in  a  true  man"-  lore. 
Why  did  I  lea  I      Fully  mine 

The  blessing  of  a  heart  like  thine, 
What  could  1  ask  abovi 

( ).  turn  from  me  the  Bad  rebuke 

Of  thai  mild  • 

unt  of  heaven,  why  shouldst  thou  look 

On  such  a    [1 
\I'  think-  I  would  not  have  thee  kn< 
W    wreak  complaints  and  selfish  ■.. 

Not  mar  thy  | 

iot,  mean  shadow  <»t  mi 

v^  •  Hid  (»".  r  it-  paltry  pelf 

Igainst  love,  hope  and  th< 


REMEMBRANCE. 

WITH  COPIES   OF   THE  AUTHOR'S   -WRITINGS. 

Friend  of  mine  !  whose  lot  was  cast 
With  me  in  the  distant  past,  — 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  fancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like  a  half-remembered  dream  ! 

Touched  by  change  have  all  things  been, 
Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening  blame  where  blame  was  true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due ; 


REMEMBRANCE.  M 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 
For  an  ideal  undent 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood  ; 

Foi  thy  marvellous  Lrift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe'er  is  beautiful ; 

Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla' 
Dropping  sweetness;  true  heart*! 
Of  congenial  sympathies  ;  — 

Still  for  these  1  own  my  debt ; 
M  mory,  with  her  eyelids  a 

Fain  would  thank  r  yet ! 

And  n<  on..  who  scatters  floa 

Where  thi   Q  f  M        swi  el  boors 

Sirs,  o'ertwined  with  blossomed  boa 

In  superfluous  seal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debl  I  'm  owing. 


92  KEMEMBRANCE. 

To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  my  own  I  add ; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  I  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


]  ]|  B    POOR    VOl  BB    ON     ELEi  HON     DA  V 

The  proudest  dow  is  but  my  j- 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  wear]  \  ear, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
T<>-<l;i\ .  alik<  it  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  1 1 1 ♦  -  known  ; 
My  palace  is  tin-  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-boi  my  throne! 

Who  ■  nday  npon  the  List 

!')•  iide  the  Ben ed  shall  stand ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  I 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 

The  rich  i-  level  with  the  poor, 

The  w<  ;ik  i-  strong  to-day  ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  jjray. 


D4   THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELECTION  DAY, 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide  ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there  's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man 's  a  man  to-day  ! 


TBI 

The  ?aiii'>  old  baffling  -0,  m\ 

I    sannofl  am  In  fain  I  send 

My  -  rci  bum 

T 
Of  B  'I  cannot  1  an 

Their  i"- 
Th«  "irn 

I  re  "ii  m  thro 

With  >ilont  chall 
Proffering  tin*  riddl<  9  • 
Like  tho  calm  Sphinxes,  with  tfa 

^l         >ning  the  1 
1  h:r  swer  for  mya  If  or  i' 

S  ride  my  1.  ;ec : 

"  All  a  of  (>  •  i  that  1-.  and 
And  God  !.  I  -ill. 

K  Bti      in  child-li]  1 1  -  will. 

Who  moves  to  II  -  -  unthwai  ill. 


KATHLEEN.6 

0  Norah,  lay  your  basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand, 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved  the  kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor ; 
Ah,  woe  is  me  ! "  the  old  lord  said, 

"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore  !  " 


K  ATM  LI  B  N  .  97 

This  lord  be  had  a  daughter  fair, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  oightly  round  (he  shealing  (ires 

Of  licr  the  gleeman  song. 

"As  sweet  and  Lr«"»d  is  young  Kathleen 
I .  ■>■■■  hex  (all ;  " 

So  sang  the  harpei  at  the  fair, 
8  i  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

"  O,  come  to  UK',  my  daughter  deal '. 
Come  til  upon  my  km 
For  looking  in  yom  face,  Kathleen, 
Youi  mother's  own  1 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  ln-r  half  away, 
1I<"  kissed  her  forehead  lair; 
"It  is  my  darling  Mary'-  brow, 
It  is  my  darling's  hair !  n 

0,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 
"  Qei  up.  get  up.*'  quoth  she, 

"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland. 

I  '11  sell  ve  o'er  the  sea  !  " 


98  KATHLEEN. 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town, 

And  to  a  seaman  sold 
This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 

For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  tore  his  beard  so  gray ; 
But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same  night  the  Banshee  howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through  the  trees, 
And  glimmering  down  the  hill ; 

They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 
And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 


I  A  T  II  L  i  99 

•  up,  old  man  !  ibe  wake-lights  shine  ! " 

•  Ye  murthering  witch"  quoth  \\<\ 

"  So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  Little  one 
If  they  shine  f<»r  you  or  n* 

I  I   whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 

\I  .  gold  and  land  shall  aai 
().  then  spake  ap  his  h  i 

•  N  0  gold  H'»r  l:ui'l   I  <  ■ 
M  Hut  Lri\"  ' 

B  "U  the  land, 

I  *11  bring  her  back  to  I 

"  My  daughter  is  ■  lady 
And  you  of  low  de 
Rut  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 
\     bring  her  back  t<>  n 

II  sail      '  sailed  ^ 

And  far  and  long  Bailed  he, 
Until  h(>  came  to  Boston  town, 
\  ross  the  great  sail  - 

7 


100  KATHLEEN. 

"  0,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 
The  flower  of  Ireland  ? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 
And  by  her  snow-white  hand  !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 
The  maiden  whom  ye  mean ; 

I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 
And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

11  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 
Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 
Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither  child,  and  say  hast  thou 
This  young  man  ever  seen  ? " 
They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 
The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 


K  AT  II  L  E  E  N  .  101 

1  I      ve  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  lake  my  pui         -     I." 

N 

B 

\\  bei  in  the  place  of  one 

The  Lord  hath  early  t.i 

her  heart  's  in  Ireland, 
We  [     ■  bez  back  again  !  " 

O,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  b<  a 

For  hi-  pool  -"wl  -hall  pray, 

And  M:iry  Mother  wash  with  tean 

l\\<  here**  i  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

Ai  you  Lr«>  nj)  Claremore 
Yell  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the  old  lord's  wife  ia  dead  and  gone, 
And  a  happy  man  is  he, 

For  1.  tide  bis  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling;  on  his  knee. 


FIRST-DAY    THOUGHTS. 

In  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no  human  tongue 
Shall  utter  words  ;  where  never  hymn  is  sung, 
Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor  censer  swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pictured  pane  ! 

There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 

The  still  small  voice  which  reached  the  prophet's  ear ; 

Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 

Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw  ! 

There  let  me  strive  with  each  besetting  sin, 
Recall  my  wandering  fancies,  and  restrain 
The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain ; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made  plain, 

May  grace  be  given  that  I  may  walk  therein, 
Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  selfish  gain, 

With  backward  glances  and  reluctant  tread, 

Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread,  — 


FIRST-DAY     THOUGHTS.  103 

But,  cheerful,  in  the  liirlit  around  me  thrown, 
Walking  us  one  to  pleasant  service  ;• 
1 1        G        irill  as  if  it  w<  ivn, 

Yet  trusting  not  in  mine,  but  in  Hi>  strength  alone! 


KOSSUTH.6 

Type  of  two  mighty  continents  !  —  combining 

The  strength  of  Europe  with  the  warmth  and  glow 
Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy,  —  the  shining 
Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern  snow  ! 
Who  shall  receive  him  ?     Who,  unblushing,  speak 
Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove  to  break 
The  Austrian  yoke  from  Magyar  necks,  smote  off 
At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the  serf,  — 
Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Father-land 

On  the  firm  base  of  freedom,  and  thereby 

Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless  hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with  a  lie ! 

Who  shall  be  Freedom's  mouth-piece  ?     Who  shall  give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to  the  great  fugitive  ? 

Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  betraying, 

Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell  of  pain 

The  swarthy  Kossuths  of  our  land  again ! 


KOSSUTH.  105 

Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips 

The  bugle-march  of  Liberty  to  wind, 

And  call  hei  tenth  the  breaking  light, — 

The  keen  reveille  of  her  morn  of  fight, — 

1  note  of  the  bloodhound's  bay ing, 

The  wolfs  1  ( > 1 1 lt  howl  behind  the  bondman's  flight ! 
O  for  tin-  tongue  of  him  who  Lies  at  rest 

In  Quincy'a  shade  of  patrimonial  trees, — 
Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the  best,  — 

To  lend  ■  voice  to  Freedom*!  sympathies, 
And  hail  the  coming  of  the  nobli 
Which  Old  World  wrong  has  given  •      N       VI 
the  W 


TO    MY    OLD    SCHOOL-MASTER 

AN   EPISTLE  NOT  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF   HORACE. 

Old  friend,  kind  friend  !  lightly  down 
Drop  time's  snow-flakes  on  thy  crown ! 
Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 
Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness ; 
Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride ;  — 
Let  the  fiend  pass  !  —  what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee  ? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 


TO     MY     OLD      SCHOOL-MASTEK.  1  "7 

Ami  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
SmiliiiLT  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  onto  whom, 

In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room, 

V<  ■   district  i  •   rule 

0'<  i  ed  printer  school, 

Thou  didsl  teach  the  n 

Of  those  weary   \  B  I  I's,  — 

Where,  to  fill  the 

Of  thy  wise  and 

Thr  nu  lo  1  and  crazy  wall 

Canoe  the  cradle-ro  nail, 

And  th( 

With  hia  shrill  and  tipsy  wife, — 
Luring  oa  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
Bfore  than  by  the  eloqm 
Of  terse  birchen  srgumi 
1 1  Mibtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complari  i  book  !  — 

Where  the  geoial  | 
Half  forgot  I 
Citing  tale  or  apol 


J  08  TO      MY      OLD     SCHOOL -MASTER. 

Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  old  Phsedrus'  two-fold  gift, 
Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Risum  et  prudentiam  monet ! 
I,  —  the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray,  — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  state  and  church ; 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage  ; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 

Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed, — 


TO      MY      OLD      SCHOOL-MASTER. 

Two-fold  citizen  art  th< 
Freeman  of  th<i  past  and  DOW. 
He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 

.Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 

0         G       "ii  moon  and  BUD  ; 

Thou  hast  bidden  them  backward  run; 
Of  to-day  the  present  r 
Flinging  over  yesterday ! 

L<  t  the  bn  leride 

What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride ; 
I-  ■  the  fools  their  tread-mills  grind, 

Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 

Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 
\     r  with  every  breeze  about, 
Turning  like  a  wind-mill  sail, 

Or  a  d  •.:  thai  »    Its  his  tail  ; 

Let  them  laugh  to 

Tabernacled  in  the  1 

V.    rking  out,  with  eye  and  lip, 

Kiddles  of  old  penmanship, 

Patii'iit  a-  Belzoni  there 

Sorting  out,  with  Loving  care, 


110      TO   MY   OLD   SCHOOL- MASTER, 

Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  seven-fold  manuscript ' 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-bespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 

Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles,  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain,— 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and  Puritan ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 
Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 
Tale,  or  sonsr,  or  anecdote : 


TO      n  V      OLD  ''MASTER.  Ill 

Vill;i.  !   old, 

told, 
What  the  pilgrim's  tab] 
Where  b  usd  whom  he  n 

I.       -  rawn  bill  of  wine  and  b 

I  i  hiv  ordination  ch< 

Or  the  flip  that  well-nigh  made 

his  funeral  carak 
\\ 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wii 

I.  lint, 

I I  '.htfol,  puritanic  saint ; 

1 . 
J 
Wh 

\ 

v  that,  for  mortal  hour--, 

1       '1  our  fathers1  vital  po* 

\  -  the  long  nineteenthlies  poo 
Downward  from»the  sounding-board, 
And,  for  fire       ! 
Tou»'liPtl  their  1"  ards  D      ml    rt  frost. 


112  TO      MY      OLD      SCHOOL- MASTER. 

Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  fathers  are  shall  be,  — 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory ! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good, 
And  the  mind  of  strength  shall  prove 
Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love ; 
Pride  of  gray-beard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness, 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore ! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age, 
With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime  ? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle  ? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small  ? 


TO      MY      OLD      SCHOOL-MASTER.  113 

Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 

Freeholds  in  futurity  I 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  day-  be  th 

Ere  thy  full  ami  honored 

Squire  for  master,  Stat 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  ru 

grown-up  knave  and  roj 
Play  the  watchful  peda 
Or,  while  pl<  asure  smili  -  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and 

ill  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  l>ar  and  bolt  withdraw, 
And  the  flaming  sword  i 
From  tin'  Paradise  of  Love. 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  r ; 

Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 
Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Sinjrcr  after  Sternhold's  heart  ! 


114  TO      BIY      OLD      SCHOOL- MASTER. 

In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear,7 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 
And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 
Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home  ! 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 
Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff,  — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before  ! 


N  ' '  1 1 .  S . 


"  Th'.u  talndflt  DM 

In  r  1  "' 

The  incident  here  referred  to  i-  related  iaai  irdrs 

Henri  Saint   Piei  I  ■    -    I  Ai 

••We  arrived  ut  the  habitation  of  the  li 

-it  down  to  their  I  irhik  thej  itchureh. 

.1.  .1.1  for  up  our  dei 

harm 

nhly  beautiful.      After  hc  ! 

the  berndti 

with  his  h<  '  At  this  i 

s:ii>l  in  the  gospel       II 

my  MM,  ///«'<•  (///i   /  fa  "<«■  Ml iotsl  of  i'i<  ,7i. 

iirj  o4  l  happiness  e bioh  pa  e  soul.'     I 

1  If  Pension  bed  lived,  yon  would  ba?<  itholio.'     B 

claimed,  with  teen  in  i  e  alive,  I 

struggle  to  Lr'-t  into  his  sen  teg 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it  will  be  seen  th.it  I  here  some- 
whet  antedated  the  period  of  his  old  age.  At  thai  time  he  was 
imt  probebrj  mote  than  fifty.  In  describing  bias,  I  hare  bj  no 
menu  ed  hi<  own  history  ofhii  mental  oonditioa  al  the 

period  of  the  story.     En  tip-  fragmentary  Sequel  t<>  hi*  Stirl 
re,  h<*  thus  speak-  of  himself :  —  "  The  ingratitude  of  tk 
whom  1  had  deeerred  kindness,  nnexpeeted  family  i 
S 


116  NOTES. 

the  total  loss  of  my  small  patrimony  through  enterprises  solely 
undertaken  for  the  benefit  of  my  country,  the  debts  under  which 
I  lay  oppressed,  the  blasting  of  all  my  hopes,  —  these  combined 
calamities  made  dreadful  inroads  upon  my  health  and  reason." 
"  I  found  it  impossible  to  continue  in  a  room  where  there  was  com- 
pany, especially  if  the  doors  were  shut.  I  could  not  even  cross  an 
alley  in  a  public  garden,  if  several  persons  had  got  together  in  it. 
When  alone,  my  malady  subsided.  I  felt  myself  likewise  at 
ease  in  places  where  I  saw  children  only.  At  the  sight  of  any  one 
walking  up  to  the  place  where  I  was,  I  felt  my  whole  frame  agi- 
tated, and  retired.  I  often  said  to  myself,  My  sole  study  has  been 
to  merit  well  of  mankind  ;  why  do  I  fear  them  ?  ' ' 

He  attributes  his  impi*oved  health  of  mind  and  body  to  the 
counsels  of  his  friend,  J.  J.  Rousseau.  "I  renounced,"  says  he, 
.*'  my  books.  I  threw  my  eyes  upon  the  works  of  Nature,  which 
spake  to  all  my  senses  a  language  which  neither  time  nor  nations 
have  it  in  their  power  to  alter.  Thenceforth  my  histories  and  my 
journals  were  the  herbage  of  the  fields  and  meadows.  My  thoughts 
did  not  go  forth  painfully  after  them,  as  in  the  case  of  human  sys- 
tems ;  but  their  thoughts,  under  a  thousand  engaging  forms, 
quietly  sought  me.  In  these  I  studied,  without  effort,  the  laws  of 
that  Universal  Wisdom  which  had  surrounded  me  from  the  cradle, 
but  on  which  heretofore  I  had  bestowed  little  attention." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says  :  "  I  derived  inexpressible  satis- 
faction from  his  society.  What  I  prized  still  more  than  his  genius, 
was  his  probity.  He  was  one  of  the  few  literary  characters  tried 
in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  to  whom  you  could,  with  perfect  secu- 
rity, confide  your  most  secret  thoughts."  "  Even  when  he  devi- 
ated, and  became  the  victim  of  himself  or  of  others,  he  could  forget 
his  own  misery,  in  devotion  to  the  welfare  of  mankind.  He  was 
uniformly  the  advocate  of  the  miserable.  There  might  be  in- 
scribed on  his  tomb  these  affecting  words  from  that  Book,  of  which 
he  carried  always  about  him  some  select  passages,  during  the  last 
years  of  his  life  :  *  His  sins,  which  are  many,  are  forgiven,  for 
he  loved  much.'  " 


NOTES.  117 

"  Like  that  I 

I»r.  li    '  •  ■ .     ho  aoeoiD]  i         -  -  \\u>>n 

-11,  thai  describe!  tlie  appearance  of  thai  unknot 

ni'l  lire,  which  WSJ  H«-<-n  in    litii 

bain  of  mountains,  ti  •  i  bich,  from  it-  1, 

jM.int  to  tlw  ocean,  i  i-  covered  with  ererlastii 
"The  water  and  the  tkj  .-■.  or  rath*  i 

bine,  than  I  h  i  d  them  in  tin-  tr  i  the 

inglj  l  eautiful  i  bich, 

when  t 1 1 « *  sun  appro  iched  the  !: 
tinti 

I  with  flame 
unbroken  column!  one  ride  jet-black,  »!,«■  other  giving 
-  of  the  -mi,  sometimes  tun 
■it    of  win  i .  ibing    many  mi'- 

- 
ghtened  bj  the  c 
the  guidance  of  our  oommander,  int..  1 1 

deemed  practic  tble,  that   it 
over  i  •   our  own   comparative  insijniifi- 

and  bel]  test  time  an  indeacril  able 

feelio  the  works  of  hui  hand." 

The  storming  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in  lv  I    I  n,  at 

the  head  of  nine  Americans,  tort  v  .,f 

Turk-  and  I  -  one  of  tl>  -  md  <1  n-ing 

which  have  in  :t  t.-.i  the  admiration  <>(  the  multitude. 

Tlu-  higher  and  holier  heroism  of  Christian  sslMenial 
bos,  in  the  humble  w:dks  of  private  du( 

It  is  pn  ;  -a  the-.-  iinee  are  tho  joinl  impromptu  of  my 

inserted  I  •  rprcwtou  of  our 


118  NOTES. 

admiration  of  the  gifted  stranger  whom  we  have  since  learned  to 
love  as  a  friend. 

Note  5,  page  96. 
Kathleen. 

This  ballad  was  originally  published  in  a  prose  work  of  the 
author's,  as  the  song  of  a  wandering  Milesian  schoolmaster. 

In  the  17th  century  slavery  in  the  New  World  was  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  natives  of  Africa.  Political  offenders  and  crim- 
inals were  transported  by  the  British  government  to  the  planta- 
tions of  Barbadoes  and  Virginia,  where  they  were  sold  like  cattle  in 
the  market.  Kidnapping  of  free  and  innocent  white  persons  was 
practised  to  a  considerable  extent  in  the  seaports  of  the  United 
Kingdom. 

Note  6,  page  104. 
Kossuth. 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  there  are  elements  in 
the  character  and  passages  in  the  history  of  the  great  Hungarian 
statesman  and  orator,  which  necessarily  command  the  admiration 
of  those,  even,  who  believe  that  no  political  revolution  was  ever 
worth  the  price  of  human  blood. 


Note  7,  page  113. 

"  Ilomilies  from  Oldbug  hear." 

Dr.  TV ,  author  of  "The  Puritan,"  under  the  name  of  Jon- 
athan Oldbug. 


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and  holy  teaching  of  the  spirit  of  poetry  —  true  to  mankind  and  his  God.  He  is 
also  the  poet  of  the  future,  casting  his  great  thoughts  out  into  the  coming  un- 
known, in  the  unshaken  faith  that  they  will  spring  up,  and  bear  fruit  a  hundred 
fold.  His  works,  to  be  as  widely  read  as  they  deserve,  should  be  in  every  dwell- 
ing in  tiie  land." — Portland  Transcript. 

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HORACE    MANN. 

A  FEW  THOUGHTS  FOR  A  YOUNG  MAN  WHEN  ENTERING 

UPON  LIFE.     A  Lecture.    Although  tbis  little  work  has  been  published  but 

a  short  time,  many  thousand  copies  have  been  sold.     1  vol.  16mo.     Cloth, 

25  cents. 

"  For  plainness  of  speech,  for  strength  of  expression,  and  decision  in  stating 

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thing  that  ever  came  from  the  press."  —  Christian  Examiner. 


PUBLISHED  BY  Til  KNOR,  REED,    \M>  FIELDS, 


GOETHE'S    WORKS. 
THE   PAUST.     Translated  bj    Hayward.     A  new  edition.     1  vol. 

l'illiu.       7."i  <  1I1L-. 

WILHELM  MEISTER'S  APPRENTICESHIP  AND  TRAVELS. 
'i  i  l  in  -j  rob.  J'  •:. 


JOHN     G.     SAXE. 
lll'M  lND  SATIRICAL  POEMS.     I  voL  1 

"  Mi  Hill  k  Upon  I  \>  ill.  fur  \\  lii.  b 

exhibited  in  aptitude.    He  give*  us  the  comii  el  phase  ol  thins 

humor.    He  writes  «  hii  li 

at  once  places  him  and  in-  reader  on  tr<«»<l  :iinl  friend  I)  terms,     i 
mil  of  sparkle  and  point  in  aaascairr. 


GEORGE     S.     HiLLARD. 

THE  DANGERS  LND  Dl   riBS  OF  THE  MERCANTILE  PRO- 
IK  )S.     1  VOl.  I«rii. 

MWe  have  twice  read  tin-  admirable  addreea,  aad  t.  .1  • ! j  . r    • 

■  Mm  in.  ml  it  in  all  ■  I'  i-  written  in  »  nobk  spirit,  and  in  thai 

at)  le  ni  simple  i  \<  ■;.  in<  e  wl 

tin  author."—  .N  v 


PHILIP     JAMES     BAILEY. 

I  HE    ANGEL  WORLD,    ml    ol 

•  i .  -tii-."    i  \..i.  it. in. 

"  Tin'  principal  poem  i-  mil  "i  beauties,  and  -<  ami  In  an,  i 
in  far  i  i  'in  poini  i.r  mural  •  mini 

■ii  .n  1. 1  a  *  Young  and  Shining  Ingi  l.' 
who    tens  in'.  Uh    throng  ol  iiriL-h!  iiniiiurt.il-.  seems  t.i  u 
i  iii  poesy. 

4  In  hj 
kinglj  sweetness,  kind  and  calm  command, 
Yet  a  uh  long  puttering  blended  .  for  the  mil 
(  m  dust  u  i-  no  in-  garb  and  sandalled  sole  — 
Dusl  '  i. ml.  gold  wh«  h  •' 

i  in-  fair  forehead,  rippling  do*  n  hie  neck  — 
Bedropt,  defiled  «  ith  o  1 1  and  cave  like  dew. 
One  band  a  staff  of  rirenl  emerald  held 
A-  'i-  _  ni  the  tree  of  life  . 

Ami  one  ■mouthed  in  In-  breast  t  dove, 

Fluttering  it-  \\  ings  in  lightnings,  thousand  bued,  — 
'I'll.,  sole  companion  "t  in-  pilgrij 
Bilenl  be  rtood  aad  . 

thy  uf  the   BBthorH   distinguished 

relebrity.     Bomcbod)  eald  <>t"  Bailey— we  think  it  was  Elliott,  • 
|kmi  —  that  there  was  matter  enough  in  tin-  author  <.r  *  Festuav  to  eel  up  fifty 
ind  Alfred  Tennyson  wrote  not  long  ago  that  be  could  scarce!]  trust  him 
self  to  sai  bow  much  he  admired  I  .-.  i..r  fear  "t  i  <l  mil-  intn  i  \tr  i\  . 

•  doubt  that  tin-  judgment  of  these  two  great  authorities  will 
be  rally  indorsed  b]  I      •  I  World  •  througnout  oar  country. ** 

!'•     -  I       -.     1   !.  V  v        I ■  I  I- T 


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of  spiritual  beauty  which  furnishes  him  with  perpetual  inspiration,  and  to  the 
glad  world  an  overflowing  song."  —  Edinburgh  Review. 

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thought  extravagant.  Nor  does  it  stand  in  need  of  any  enthusiastic  commenda- 
tion to  secure  for  it  a  very  large  circle  of  readers  ;  for,  of  all  living  poets,  hardly 
any  has  a  wider  or  more  desirable  reputation  in  this  country  than  Tennyson.  The 
mere  announcement  of  a  new  poem  from  his  pen  will  send  thousands  on  an  im- 
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tation of  what  he  describes,  but  that  he  has  surrendered  himself,  heart  and  soul, 
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be  a  hard  heart  that  will  not  be  touched  now  and  then  with  it."  —  Chronotype. 

"  Most  of  the  ballads  he  has  selected  are  beautiful  specimens  of  that  natural 
poetry  which  springs  directly  from  the  heart  and  imagination  in  words  and  images 
fresh  and  bright  from  Nature's  own  mint.  The  interest  of  the  reader  is  enhanced 
by  feeling  that  he  is  reading  poems  which  were  sung,  centuries  ago,  in  the  palace 
halls,  and  by  the  cottage  hearths  of  a  whole  nation,  and  which  formed  the  litera- 
ture of  thousands  on  thousands  of  minds  who  had  no  other.    Every  thing  in  them 


...  AND  FIELDS.  « 

-  youth  >>f  !•  <  ling.     Th<  1  «>k.-fi  upon 

a«  n  il  bad  j < i - 1  come  from  the  ■  ..  and  u  it'  i  :ir~t  u 

•  upon  it  the  I        .kb. 


RICHARD     MONCKTON     MILNES. 
POEMS   OF   M  \n  V   YEARS.     .  th,  83 

"  'I  in-  tuthor,  who  I 

livided   with  Tennyson  1 1 i •-  admiration   and 
land.'     i  hi ii>  nth  pun  ng  in  the  \\ 

1  The  I  '  I  mchine  tliii 

We  n<  ■  igtitful  child  l  i 

many  ■  childlike  man  ii  u   •  -  i-  t.«< 

i  iisitivc  not  to  ] 


HORACE     AND     JAMES    SMITH. 

■   I  ED    ADDR]  -  'lrnm. 

ftom  tl"-  laal  London 
ami  notaa  by  the  authors.    I  voL  1( ... 
"  In  -.1  .inn.'  oni 
Ticknor  >■»   Co.  bare  certainly  erinced  u  much  judgment 
I  the  work  bi  I 

WABRENIANA,     I  i 


BARRY     CORNWALL. 

ENGLISH 

edition,    l  vol.  ir.ii:  •.    B8  a  nth 

■  thai  ahoul 

-li-ll  Which   at    all    ;  .1 

I « i  —  on  ii  dom  mii  h-  to  lied."  —  i 

••  Th.  i  m  idely  known,  t.«>  Justh 

reviewed  caaual I)  now.  In  contemplating  them,  criti 
tion,  wboee  ipeech  la  rilence.  We  had  intended  onl 
tions  from  this  glorious  volume  —  (Ticult  t<>  maa 

Iready  houaehold  words  to  us  alL 
1  The  S<  >,'  '  The  Bunu  i 


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rrii'  Bta, 

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t ii'ii ;  everj  thing  moves  with  him.    His  diction,  too,  n  uncommon!)  good.    Hit 

i  the  Ocean  Wave  *  is  perfect  j  when  we  read  it,  we  feel  tin 
ruahing  against  our  cheeks,  and  the  blood  atartia|  is  our  veins,  as  theship  tri- 
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:    REED,    Wit  FIELDS  1 

- 
10   'J  >    witli   :..  i    Mlkvld  or 


THOMAS     DE    QUINCEY. 
Till:  WRn  [NGS  OP  TH  Vol- 

uiin-.s  tin  .i>ly  published  :  — 

'  >ARS. 

].;   ii  -  »pii   |  i:  i  i  BE,     id    I'm: 


II.   'i  ,i  :.   Bl<     .1-  M  ii.' 

m.  Tub  v 


I 


••  Who  thai  know  -  inj  • 

i«,  in  ii  m'i  Uland, 

'l  around  dj  the  n 

■ 

I  ,'unl  tin'  sin 
w  uli  ni'.-t  r.  m 

ureird  like  |"'  loornful  •  I  q 

depth  of  a  if«inn-  In  urhii  h  the  fount  dm 

in  n  lin  h  tk  I-  ■ 
w  lit)  li 

1 1  L  >  H  Y     G 


DR.     GREENWOOD. 

SERN  )LA  l  ION.     By  K  \    1    W    P. 

1».  I"..    M  ■  [ion.     1   v.l. 

• 
••  \\ '.■  tba  .:  •. 

.  u  uli. .lit  .1 
the  universal  I 
"  'I'll 
in<l  it-  i 
I 

■ 

thoughl  M  vrondlj  m 


(IRS     OF 
I>.  C.  U     i:>  Chri  :-\\.  rtli,  1).  1  . 

- 
"  It  i-  natural  thai  the  admirers  of  V 
raised  t  \;x  ctatioiu   : 


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before  us.  And  we  believe  that  all  their  anticipations  will  be  fully  realized.  It  is 
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acquainted,  as  it  were,  with  liis  inner  self  It  is  rilled  with  references  to  his 
poems,  for  liis  work- were  his  life,  'His  poems  are  no  visionary  dream;,  but 
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ily  ('.  Juda  M.     i  roL  I'  in  ■.     i 
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